


Hush

by posingasme



Series: Hush [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s04e13 After School Special, F/M, M/M, Sastiel Big Bang 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posingasme/pseuds/posingasme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is a Stanford-educated janitor at the school where Dean is a gym teacher and wrestling coach, and where a certain history teacher's classroom is always a complete mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosworms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosworms/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch 2 is the artwork.

The conversation was beginning to sound high-pitched, even though John's voice was low as always. Sam wanted to cover his ears, but there wasn't much point. John would just get more irritated. Besides, Dean was there. He would take care of it. Technically, John wasn't even talking to Sam, only about him. That was just as well, since the pitch was making it hard for Sam to follow.

"...at Stanford for this? I just don't get it!"

Sam sighed. John would never get it.

Dean was frowning at him. "Yeah, he did. And it didn't cost us a dime because he's a freaking genius, and he got a full ride! So what are you complaining about? He's got a job. He's got two, in fact. So you have nothing to complain about, and yet you just keep giving him a hard time! Thanks for the visit, Dad! Always nice when you come over to remind us you're disappointed!"

John scowled, and ran a hand over his face. "That's not...Dammit, Dean, that's not what I'm saying."

"Sure sounds like it on this end."

"Well, I don't mean for it to. I'm not...I want you boys to be happy, and I can't believe Sam's happy doing what he's doing!"

Sam licked his lips and took a step back. He wanted to hide behind Dean the way he had as a child. At least back then, he could talk to his father. That is, sometimes he could. When everyone was calm. But having spent so much time away from him in the past few years had stolen that. The anxiety was now too severe for Sam to talk even to John. And that meant that it was now only Dean.

"He's happy because he's doing a good, hard day's work, and getting paid for it. And it doesn't make him want to throw up. So stop. Leave the kid alone. Yes, Sam went to Stanford. Yes, he's working as a custodian. Yes, he does freelance research from home. Can we please talk about anything else now?"

John and Dean stared one another down for nearly a minute. Sam sighed again.

"Yeah," John relented finally. "Yeah, whatever. Sammy, you're happy? Then I'm happy."

Sam lowered his eyes. He was not going to be able even to nod.

Dean sighed too, and he sounded tired. "Right. Well, you haven't even asked me about my wrestlers."

Sam was grateful when the conversation turned to the high school wrestling competitions. Dean was a physical education teacher and wrestling coach at Truman High, the same school where Sam cleaned late afternoons and evenings. Truman's wrestlers were going to pull off another championship this year. Sam just knew it.

The rest of the night was spent easily enough, listening to the other men debate the defensive lines of the Colts and Chiefs. Dean had adopted the local team when they had moved to Fairfax, Indiana a few years back. It had surprised Sam, considering how loyal to his Chiefs he had been growing up. But Dean loved sport of all kinds, and it turned out to matter far less who the team was and far more that he could dedicate himself to their victories.

When John finally retired to the guest room, Sam felt guilty for the sigh of relief he couldn't hold back.

Dean laughed at him while disposing of the empty bottles the three of them had accumulated. "I know, man. Me too." He glanced at Sam, and seemed to know he was still not ready to talk. He stood at the sink to worry over dishes, but held out the pen to his brother, barely noticing that he was doing so. A moment later, he looked down at the scrawl on his own arm. "I know. It's still nerve-wracking having him here, though." He waited, and tried to keep his arm still while he worked with his hands. He looked down again, and laughed. "Yeah. Puts us right back to being kids the minute he walks in. Don't seem to matter how old we get. If Dad's in the room, we're eight and twelve again."

Sam chuckled softly. He took a breath to try a whisper. "I never had to listen to the Sam-went-to-Stanford speech when I was eight," he groaned.

"Which is bullshit, because he was so pissed when you wanted to go so far to school." Dean morphed his own deep voice into a scarily good imitation of John's. "Jayhawks ain't good enough for you, boy? Good enough for your big brother!"

Sam rolled his eyes and took another deep breath. "Please don't ever do the leaving-us-for-Stanford voice again," he hissed.

Dean laughed.

His voice was beginning to gain strength, and he handed back the pen reluctantly. Dean's pen was something of a security item for Sam, and had been since they were children. Learning to write had been such an incredible development for Sam as a child. Selective mutism was painful in so many ways, and sometimes he could not even speak to Dean, especially if there were anyone else nearby who could potentially overhear. As a very young boy, Sam would simply freeze, his entire body unable to push past the anxiety to communicate at all. Then, gradually, he had been able to take a step back in those situations, so that the focus in the room became Dean. Eventually, he learned to make himself nod at the appropriate times, and even smile when it was called for. That was the hardest part. A smile. Simple as it was, Sam couldn't manage it at all sometimes. But if others were nearby but not watching, he could write. Dean had carried a pen on him for as long as Sam could remember knowing how to use one. He usually kept a tiny memo pad on him too, but at some point, Sam had begun writing his abbreviated thoughts and concerns on Dean's arm whenever Dean had forgotten to have paper nearby, and it had become a sort of quirky game between them over the years. Most days, Dean did not bother with paper anymore, even now that they were grown men. If someone commented on the ink scrawled across his bicep or forearm, he just shrugged. It had always been there, and it washed off easily enough.

Writing had always been Sam's only expressive outlet. He loved research, and he spent many happy hours in the library or holed up in various archival records offices. At Stanford, he had worked part time in the library, converting microfiche and paper articles to digital. It was important work, and Sam had loved it. No one bothered him while he did it, and others found it far too boring to want him to tell them about it. It was perfect.

But in the end, getting through an interview outside the academic world was unrealistic. Even an English degree from Stanford and a digital archive practitioner certificate did not negate the fact that Sam still had to actually talk to people to get a job.

So he had Dean do it for him.

That had been one of the most difficult conversations he had ever had with his brother.

"What? No! Sam!"

He had looked into those shocked green eyes steadily. "It's what I want, Dean. You said you would help me get a job," he reminded him.

"Yeah, in a library or whatever! You going to clean up after a bunch of grimy kids? I don't think so!"

"Not forever, Dean! Just for a year or two! If I'm ever going to function like I need to, I’ve got to get a doctor whose response to everything isn't 'Well, just start talking more' or heavier meds. I don't mind taking some medicine, man, I know I need it sometimes, but that doesn't solve everything. Freelance is a good income, but it doesn't come with insurance. I need insurance if I'm going to really try to get past this so I can do what I really want to do.”

Dean was frowning deeply. "I don't like it."

"You don't have to like it. You have to help me."

So Dean had spoken to the facility manager at the school district, and they had worked something out. When they learned over time that Sam was an exceptional worker, and that he was determined to be an ideal employee, no one cared anymore that he didn't speak. He took direction, and that was all the supervisor cared about.

Things had gotten better. Sam was happier, and his therapist had encouraged him to use his job as a way of practicing his social interactions. After several weeks, he was able to give a genuine smile to co-workers, and even say hello now and then. After another few months, he had worked up to saying hello to certain teachers when he encountered them after the students had left. There was a bit of a setback when a teacher who'd obviously had an extremely bad day had snapped at him for leaving her room half-cleaned. She had apologized when she realized he had only been leaving to acquire more trash bags, but the damage was already done, and Sam had to work back up to smiling and speaking to teachers again. When Dean had heard about it, he had literally growled at the woman at a faculty meeting.

Then there was the history teacher at the end of the last hall. It was the last classroom on Sam's list, furthest from the main office, yet the man was almost always still working in his classroom by the time Sam got there. Just in case he was, Sam spent his entire shift preparing to say hello to him. Most days, he couldn't manage more than a small, anxious smile, and he wished he could somehow express to the man how much effort it took even for that, that most people weren't worth so much effort.

Castiel Drosme was worth it. He loved working in Castiel's room. It was physically painful to push out, "Good day today, Mr. Drosme?" But he was so pleased when he could, because the man looked up every time with a bright smile of surprise, and began to chatter. There was no expectation for Sam to participate, and he could go about his work, just listening to the wonderful hum of Castiel's deep voice, telling him all about the day he'd had, what he had taught, how he wasn't sure fifth period was ready for their unit test, so perhaps he should move it to Thursday, but it was always such a pain when his classes were off-track like that, and did Sam know the story of how Napoleon had returned to his former position in triumph, and did he know about the way Seward had convinced the government to buy Alaska, because it was all quite interesting, and was he keeping Sam when he needed to be elsewhere, because he would love to tell him more about the historiography of Depression era politics, considering how many documents had been destroyed, and that reminds him of the way researchers are viewing Johnson's role in the War Room during the end of the conflict in Vietnam, now that more and more records had been released...

It was the highlight of Sam's day.

"What are you smiling at?" Dean demanded. "I got something on my face?"

He laughed quietly. "No. I was just thinking again how grateful I am that you got me that job at the school. Good benefits, decent pay. Thank you, man."

Dean waved him off. "You gotta stop thanking me. I may have helped you get the job, but you're the one that kept it. Lot of guys with your education level might have stuck their noses up. But folks tell me all the time how you're the hardest worker in the school. Which is bull, because I kick twice the ass you do."

Sam smirked. "Yeah? I fixed the air conditioning for the entire second floor yesterday. You think there's anything you could possibly do to make those teachers happier than that did?"

"Oh, let them sweat," Dean snorted.

"You only say that because the gym and health rooms are on the first floor."

"You fixed it yourself? Why didn't they call in somebody?"

"Because they knew I could fix it."

He snorted again. "They don't pay you enough." He stretched his arms above his head. "I'm going to bed. My Baby and I gotta hit that lot by seven thirty tomorrow if I'm going to get grades done in time."

"When are they due?"

"Five o'clock today."

Sam burst into laughter. "Nice!"

"What? I'm busy!"

"You better keep bringing in trophies if you're going to suck at teaching."

Dean glared at him. "Hey! I rock at teaching. I suck at being a teacher. Huge difference." Then he winked and trotted out of the room and up the stairs.

Sam followed more slowly. It had been a long night. Having someone other than the two of them in their home, even John, made Sam's anxiety spike badly. It wore him out. It was just as well John was only scheduled to be there just one night. He was glad he had showered after work, because he wanted to just fall into bed now, continue reading his latest find by Dave Eggers, and maybe think a little bit about asking Castiel Drosme how his day went tomorrow evening. It wasn't too early to start preparing. It was only nineteen hours away.

 

***

 

Sam hated the first Wednesday of every month, at least as much as the teachers did. The monthly faculty meetings meant that every teacher was still in the building by the time he made his rounds. It was so stressful that Sam had actually called out of work one month last year because he had made himself sick anticipating it. It certainly wasn't so bad as it used to be. Most of the teachers ignored him entirely, like a giant ghost roaming the school after the kids had left for the day. Others gave him warm smiles, which he appreciated but never knew what to do with.

But there would always be some who just didn't understand, who wanted to "bring him out of his shell." The English teachers were the worst about that. And when Dean had let it slip months ago that Sam had an English degree from Stanford, it was as though the whole department had erupted. Sam had come in that afternoon to find that every English teacher he encountered was eager to talk to him, to find out why, oh why, was he sweeping their floors and emptying their bins when he could be teaching in the room next door? Sam had not gotten through three rooms before he had rushed to the maintenance storage unit and waited there for nearly an hour until he felt sure they would all be gone. He had forbidden Dean from speaking to anyone about his education ever again.

He had gotten to the point where he could generally identify a teacher's subject from the moment they opened their mouths-or didn't-when he saw them in the halls. Science teachers were friendly, but always in a hurry. He stepped out of their way or helped them carry their heavy things, and they appreciated him. Math teachers always had something else on their minds. It wasn't that they were rude, he had decided. They honestly did not notice him, and that was just fine with him. The gym teachers and coaches always wanted to smack him on the back, which was all right, but awkward, and they always had something to say about Dean. The library staff gave him sweet smiles, but didn't seem to know what to say any more than he did. They chattered amongst themselves, but never expected him to join in. The computer and business teachers all seemed irritated to be among other humans. They didn't seem to mind the students so much, but were exasperated by all the other adults, including one another. The art and theatre teachers were much like the science crowd, in that they always needed something heavy carried, and they always seemed to be running late to everything. They were also like the guidance counselors who seemed to form their own exclusive social clubs, and it seemed to Sam that none of them actually liked one another. The special education faculty were perpetually weary, but they carried on bravely from meeting to meeting, and always spoke to him, though they never pushed. Administrators and secretaries were pleasant and professional, and all of them addressed him by name, but a nod was enough for them to leave him alone. Social studies teachers seemed to have permanent smirks and raised eyebrows, as though they were constantly judging every individual and society itself. That made Sam nervous.

And then there was Mr. Drosme. He was cynical like the other social studies staff, professional as the administrators, laughed like a gym teacher, smiled like the librarians, and talked like the English department, but with the kindness of the special education folks. He was animated as the art teachers, dedicated as the science staff, and still managed to be as absent-minded as the math teachers, as if he did not notice Sam until he spoke to him.

That was why it was so important for Sam to be able to speak to him.

This Wednesday was not so bad, as far as first Wednesdays went. Most of the educators hurried off to their meeting, then disappeared into the parking lot the minute it was over. A few stuck around, but Sam could anticipate who might do that, and he finished their rooms before their meeting wrapped up.

But Castiel stayed. Castiel always stayed. Sam entered through the always-open door and began sweeping through the rows of student desks. He swallowed several times before opening his mouth.

"Good day today, Mr. Drosme?" he pushed out, then turned his back to the teacher's desk. He would miss the smile today, which was a shame, but after so much social pressure already packed into this shift, he preferred not to be looked at.

He could hear the smile anyway.

"Sam! Sorry. I was looking over papers they gave us at the meeting. Yes, it was a good enough day, I guess. Nothing like trying to invade Russia to get the kids interested."

Sam smiled to himself. He continued his work on the floor.

"You know, my family is originally-that is, my maternal side? They're from Latvia. Former Soviet state, of course. I find the history of that part of the world exciting to teach. The kids laugh at how into it all I get, but it's not...Well, maybe one day they'll find something to be passionate about too."

Passionate. Sam felt his face heating, and he was glad to know Castiel was still sifting through papers. He wished he could ask what else Castiel was passionate about.

"Did you know, Sam, that the-oh!" The teacher leapt to his feet. "I'm so sorry. It was-We reviewed today, and there's a game the kids play, and they tend to...I don't mean for you to come in and see the room trashed like this. I didn't think of it before the meeting, and then the paperwork-Look, let me pick up a bit, and you can come back, okay? Oh. Mine is the last room on the list, isn't it?"

Sam watched as Castiel floated around the room, picking up crumpled notebook paper. He gave a soft laugh through his nose. Castiel did this every time.

"It's such a stupid-I mean, the kids love it. It's a good way to get them to study. It's just a silly game. Trashketball. They answer the question correctly and get to try to make a basket in the trash can to score a point for their team...Lots of teachers use it, but I'm sure they don't let the kids destroy the room like I do, or at least they pick up after them before you get there..."

He wanted to tell Castiel to stop, to not worry about it. Sam didn't have any problem cleaning up after a teacher who let their kids go nuts with a game to review for an assessment. He bet Castiel's students were the best prepared kids in the school. How could they not be? He was so enthusiastic about everything, like he had just discovered humanity and its history and couldn't get enough.

"Anyway, I just don't want you to think this is...I'm not a messy person by nature..."

This was just not true. Castiel was one of the messiest teachers he cleaned for. Sam liked to take the time to make things orderly for him, which wasn't really part of his job, but he didn't mind, when he knew how much it was appreciated. Castiel clearly liked things orderly. He just couldn't help being a mess himself. Sam kind of enjoyed the contradiction. Also, it was adorable the way the man's head was bobbing up and down between the rows of desks, collecting the crumpled notebook paper.

"And I'm not inconsiderate by nature either," the man was promising. "I just don't think of things when I should, when I'm distracted-It's just-Well, I guess that makes me inconsiderate, but I don't mean to be."

Sam was laughing.

"And wasteful. I do try to get the kids to recycle their trashketballs. And to use papers that should be thrown out anyway, not new ones, certainly, but you know..." Finally, Castiel looked up at Sam, with his reading glasses askew just as badly as his tie always was. He shrugged sheepishly, arms full of little paper balls. "You're laughing at me," he remarked with surprise.

Sam's eyes went wide, and he suddenly felt dizzy. Those blue eyes were on him-on him!-and he wanted to run. But he made himself shake his head weakly.

Castiel sighed. "No, it's okay. I'm a mess."

This time, Sam tried a tiny smile as he shook his head.

"No," Castiel groaned as he deposited the balls into the recycling bin. "I know I am. I team-taught a course with Mr. Wyatt, the English teacher, last year, and I think he hated it. He's just too kind to say so."

Sam knew Mr. Wyatt. He was the only English teacher who had not attacked him with questions after finding out he had gone to Stanford. He had mentioned it, of course, and then had quietly asked if Sam was doing what he wanted to do. Sam had forced himself to nod. "What's important is that you're happy. Are you happy, Sam?"

He remembered Castiel sharing space with Mr. Wyatt the year before. It had been Castiel's second year teaching, and he had been even more of a mess than he was now, if it were possible. Mr. Wyatt was calm, collected, organized. Castiel was a bundle of chaos stuffed into a rumpled suit. Half the time, he was still wearing his trench coat at the end of the day because it hadn't occurred to him to take it off that morning. Dean said they were each favorites among the kids, but it was like water and oil putting the two of them in a classroom together.

Sam wanted to tell Castiel that it didn't matter, that he was the best kind of mess there was, that he would give anything to be the sort of mess Castiel was. But of course he couldn't.

The man sat back down at his desk. "You'd never know I came from a military family."

This was new. Sam had been cleaning around this man for nearly two years now, and this was the first he had heard of that. He looked up from emptying the bins.

"You know, I went through the first two weeks of college at VMI. Virginia Military," he added. "It's where most of the men in my family graduated. I went through the first two weeks, just to prove I could, and then I transferred. First two weeks. Rat Week. Week of hell. Lot of guys don't make it through. I did it, and then I got out. Didn't want any of my family to be able to say I couldn't cut it. I could have done it. I just didn't want it."

Sam was intrigued. He stared openly at the man, who kept his eyes on his desk.

"I'm the black sheep in my family, I guess." There was a pause, then the smile was back. He began to shuffle paperwork around his desk, and for the first time, Sam realized he wasn't actually doing any work. Why was he still at the school if he wasn't doing work? "Where does that term come from? Are there black sheep randomly born to families of white sheep? I don't know anything about animals. That's not true; I know plenty about animals. Just not sheep. Did you know that a lot of insurance companies won't insure sheep? Because domestic sheep will stand there and graze when there's danger instead of running away. They'll watch one another get eaten by a predator or carried off by a flood, and won't move to escape themselves. They don't realize they could be next. I'm sure that's not all sheep. But I read that. And turkeys. Domestic ones, I guess, where we've bred the intelligence out of them. They'll stare up at the rain until they drown. Maybe that's an old wives tale. Pigs, though, they're smart as dogs. Maybe smarter. Did you know that a cat's..."

And so it went with Castiel Drosme, Sam's favorite person in the world outside of his brother.

 

***

 

Dean looked up to find Sam scribbling on his wrist. He lay his head back down on his other arm until he was finished. He was past buzzed. "I'm getting old, Sammy," he moaned. "I go straight from buzzed to sleepy. What the hell?"

Sam snickered at him.

He glanced at his wrist with one open eye. Then he rolled that one eye and closed it again. "Because I'm waiting for Lisa. Then we can go home." There was more scribbling, but Dean shook the man off. "I know what you're writing, bitch, and I don't want to read it. I'm waiting for Lisa because I want to see Lisa. Don't scold me. I'm not stalking her. I'm concerned. I want to see this guy she's dating."

Sam heaved a sigh beside him.

This time, he sat up. "Shut up."

This earned him a tired smile and chuckle from his silent brother.

"I'm not going to say anything or start anything. If my wife is seeing a new guy, I want to know he's good to her. That he's going to treat Ben well."

Two letters.

Green eyes rolled. "Ex-wife. Whatever. Matt. Who goes by Matt? That's something you walk on."

Sam's smirk accompanied the snark written on his arm.

Dean squinted to read it. "Or something Lisa does yoga on-You're an asshole, you know that?"

The younger man laughed.

"Whatever. I'm going to start telling you what I think of Dromse if you don't shut up."

There was the bitchface.

Dean gave him a smug look. "See? Not so fun on the other end."

His heart dropped as he saw a familiar smile brighten the room, as his wife walked into the bar with her arm interlocked with some guy's. Matt. Dean had never thought of it before, but it really was an awful name. Doctor Matt. Wasn't that just lovely?

Sam kicked him under their table, and he stopped snarling at the couple. He cleared his throat. "So he's clearly a douche."

His brother diplomatically said nothing.

"I mean, look at him."

Sam sighed.

"I want to kick his ass."

"No," Sam pushed out. He shook his head in warning.

"She’d like that I could kick his ass. She always thought it was hot."

Sam scrawled on a cocktail napkin this time.

"No she didn't. Part of why she divorced you was your lack of anger manage-I don't need you analyzing my marriage!" He made a whining noise. "My ex-marriage. Whatever."

Sam took hold of his arm but this time it was to help his brother stand.

Dean wanted to protest, but he really didn't have any good excuse. Lisa didn't need him to watch over her. She was better off without him, in fact. And he still saw Ben now and then, and talked to him on the phone. He really had no right to complain. That didn't mean he didn't want to.

They walked back to the car and drove in silence. Dean was still sulking, and Sam was staring at the road ahead as if he were fed up with the rest of the world. But as they pulled into the drive, Dean looked at him. "You think we're cursed?"

Sam pulled the keys from the ignition, and cut his eyes at Dean in exasperation.

"No, I'm serious. Cursed. There's Dad. Love of his life dead, spending the rest of his life drinking about it. You? Can't talk to a guy to save your life. Me? I'm a freaking monster, and I scared away the only girl I'm ever going to love."

His brother cleared his throat and spoke softly as he let them into the house. "I heard Adam's wedding is cancelled. His mom made a post about it online. Vague, but that's what it sounds like."

"See?" Dean stumbled into the house and found his way to the couch. "Winchester. Cursed. Even the good son, the freaking almost-a-doctor son. God, I hate doctors. Matt's a doctor."

"I gathered," Sam said quietly.

"Don't you hate doctors? I mean, I hate them. Remember that doctor Dad took you to? The one who said you were...He called you something. What was it?"

Sam's jaw clenched. "A glutton for attention."

"Right. Asshole." Dean draped his arm over his eyes. He couldn't remember if he was making a point. "Remember that? Laughed when he said it, like, kids will be kids. I wanted to put my hand through his face."

"Me too."

"Sammy the attention whore. That's like the exact freaking opposite of the problem.”

“Dean?”

“What?”

“How’d you know Lisa was going to be there tonight?”

He chewed on his lip before responding. “I didn’t. I just...thought she might be. It’s our wedding anniversary, and she likes that place, and…”

Sam was sighing again. Sam was always sighing at him. “Your anniversary. I’m so sorry, man. I forgot all about it.”

“She didn’t,” he responded irritably. “She brought him where she knew I’d be.”

“You went where you knew she’d be.”

He shrugged. “One and the same.”

They were both silent for a long while, and Dean had nearly fallen asleep when he heard his brother’s voice again. “It’s Drosme.”

“What is?”

“The name of the teacher you were teasing me about. It’s Drosme, not Dromse.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re saying right now.”

“It’s Latvian.”

Dean groaned and lifted himself to stumble toward his bedroom. He nearly walked into the door when he heard the next words.

"I think I'm going to try talking to him. Maybe tomorrow. You know. Cursed or not."

He shifted to turn back, but Sam had already disappeared into his own bedroom and closed the door. Dean stared after him. "Well, son of a bitch. That's my boy."

 

***

 

Castiel sighed into his hands. His head was pounding. He had already taken acetaminophen. It just hadn't kicked in yet. He had finished grading his students' tests, and was entering them into his gradebook on his laptop, but the screen was brutal on his headache. The glasses came off and so did the tie, and he rolled his sleeves up to the elbow. A moment later, he was pulling at the top two buttons on his shirt.

Why was he still there? He didn't need to enter grades right this minute. It could wait. Or he could do it from home. It had been a very long time since he had needed to take grading home, since he tended to stay at the school every day until about six. And why did he bother doing that?

"Good day today, Mr. Drosme?"

He smiled happily, feeling the warmth enter his stomach, along with the butterflies. Even the pain in his head seemed to ease slightly at the soft voice. "Sam," he sighed, lifting his face from his hands.

The immense, silent giant was moving around the room.

"Getting better," he breathed in answer to the only question Sam ever asked.

Sam nodded, nearly smiled, then turned away to continue his work.

It seemed silly to get excited about a nod. But he had come to understand that every tiny gesture of communication was a struggle for Sam, and so it meant the world to Castiel. He thought perhaps he would never forget the first time Sam had spoken to him at all, and it was just to say his name, four soft syllables, in greeting. It was a shame the man couldn't call him Cas instead of Mister. There wasn't much Castiel could think of that he would want more. But he knew it was yet another way Sam put distance between himself and others, so, beyond a gentle reminder here and there that he wouldn't mind if Sam called him by his first name, Castiel did not push.

Ordinarily, Castiel would have been rambling by now. Not that he had an excellent verbal filter at the best of times, but something about Sam's presence completely robbed him of his ability to think before talking. At first, he had wondered if it was Sam's silence that made him nervous. But that wasn't it exactly. It was the way Sam moved, the way he was obviously listening to every word with interest, the way his eyes flicked over his surroundings, and Castiel himself, with intelligence.

Stanford, full academic scholarship. Castiel had heard Coach Winchester talking with one of the English teachers in the workroom, when she had mentioned that her son was considering applying to Stanford. Castiel had enough experience with the same phenomenon to recognize the dread on Dean's face when he realized information had hopped off his tongue without his permission.

"My kid brother, Sam, he went to Stanford. Got a full academic scholarship. Got his English degree there before he..." Green eyes had widened, and Dean suddenly looked sick to his stomach. "I mean, it's not a big deal..."

The teacher had stared at him. "Dean, that's a huge deal! You're...you're not talking about the Sam...Your brother who cleans here-not that brother!"

Dean ran his hands over his face. "Yeah. But really, don't make it a big deal, okay? Please. He would hate that I said anything."

She had shrugged this off. "Why should that bother him?"

Dean had simply sighed.

Castiel had been sitting behind him, listening. He knew exactly why it would bother Sam. He didn't want anyone asking him questions that weren't any of their business. And Castiel had no doubt that the entire English department had done exactly that. The man had not spoken again for nearly three weeks after, indicating to Castiel that he had been accosted by well-meaning literature instructors, and needed time to recover.

Today, Castiel did not begin talking the way he normally did. He saw Sam glance at him several times, with curiosity in his eyes. Just yesterday, Sam had actually laughed. He had seen hidden smiles before, but Sam's laugh had shocked him.

He had thought about that laugh for much of the evening, and far too much of the day today. At first, he had been elated, near-dizzy with pleasure that something he had done or said had made Sam laugh, even if it was probably at his own expense. Silent Sam, as the other teachers on the hall called him, had definitely laughed. Even if it was just that Castiel was a complete mess that Sam found amusing, it was still such a development that Castiel's head was spinning with it.

But then it had occurred to him that that was the problem. A laugh was a significant development. Castiel had been entirely smitten by this man for all of last year and all of this one so far. It was to the point that he had actually missed him badly over the summer. Yet, they had never so much as laughed together.

What was wrong with him? Why did he loathe himself so completely? Because that was the only explanation. He was clearly a total head case if he was still pining after a guy he knew virtually nothing about. Castiel had other options. In the time he had wasted thinking about this man, Castiel had been propositioned many times. Even on the few occasions he had tried to shift his attention to someone else, he found himself thinking of Sam. He had realized partway through a drink with one man that he was searching the bar for Sam, since he had once seen him drinking beer with his brother there months back. He hadn't wanted to take the chance that Sam would see him there with another man, which was ridiculous, considering Sam probably had no idea he was even interested in men. His date had been less than impressed with his inattentive behavior.

Castiel raised his strained eyes to look at Sam's cleaning cart. He found what he was looking for with little effort. There was the soft lunch cooler with its mesh pocket. It was in the same place every day, just waiting for Castiel to steal a glimpse.

 _All the President's Men_. Sam was reading the definitive classic on Watergate. Castiel hedged on whether to add it to his list. He had read it before. And he was still reading that Eggers book about Hurricane Katrina that Sam had on his cart Wednesday. Maybe he would skip Nixon and catch up so he would be ready for Friday or Monday's books.

It killed him that he had no way of knowing what Sam read on his weekends.

That decided, Castiel went back to his self-pity.

Because of his obsession with Sam, here he was now, stressed, depressed, and utterly alone, sitting in a room with obnoxious, unnatural lighting in spite of the migraine that was threatening from behind his eyes, while the object of his entire unhealthy obsession was cluelessly emptying the recycling bins without a glance behind-

"Mr. Drosme, are you all right?"

Castiel took a clumsy breath. He lifted his head to stare at Sam, who was standing awkwardly at the front of the room. The man's eyes were cast down, but they had concern in them that Castiel knew was for him. He couldn't help his smile. When he responded, it was gentle. He was careful not to allow his excitement into his voice. He had researched selective mutism in the time he had known Sam, had poured through studies about it, theories, therapies. He knew how critical it was not to make this experience more frightening for Sam than it already was.

But the thought that Sam had pushed through that paralyzing fear to speak because he was concerned about Castiel...

"I'm-I'm fine, Sam. Thank you...for asking."

The smile he received was filled with pride and relief, and it warmed away all of the pain Castiel had ever felt in his life. Sam swallowed hard. "Tomorrow?" he whispered hopefully.

Castiel nodded. "I'm already looking forward to it," he murmured in awe.

Sam took a gulp of breath, and nodded once, then hurried from the room, leaving Castiel breathless behind him.

"Tomorrow," he repeated to himself with wonder.

Castiel had always loved Fridays.

 

***

 

"I did it," Sam reported blandly. "Spoke to Drosme."

Dean sighed. "And that's why we're sitting on the tub throwing up into the toilet."

The younger man nodded.

"Did you at least get home before you started blowing out lunch?"

"Couldn't eat lunch," was the response, preceding another round of useless gagging.

Dean made a face, but continued stabbing into his macaroni while leaning against the open bathroom door.

"How can you eat that right there?"

He gave a shrug and pushed another forkful into his mouth. "How often did you come home from high school and barf in our bathroom? I would have starved if I hadn't learned to eat while you did it." He chewed thoughtfully. "It's amazing how tall you got. Imagine how big you'd be if you had ever kept your food down two days in a row?"

"Not...helping."

There was a clang of fork on bowl, and then Sam could feel his brother's hand rubbing circles into his back, like he had when they were kids. "Did it go bad? Want me to talk to him?"

"You punch that gorgeous face, and I'll never speak to you again."

"You don't speak to me much now."

"Screw...you."

Dean laughed quietly. "Really? Gorgeous face? Sammy, I've got a gorgeous face. Dromse is hardly-"

"It's...it's Drosme, and it's gorgeous. You're pretty. Not the same thing."

He could hear the offended outburst in his head before Dean even said it. "Pretty! I'm not pretty! I'm a distinctive brand of masculine!"

"Pretty. Practically a Disney princess."

The hand left his back and smacked him in the head. "Yeah? What's that make you, Sasquatch?"

Sam sighed and accepted the washcloth he was handed to wipe at his face as he sat up. "I'm the animal sidekick. Not the funny one. The one that doesn't speak but rolls his eyes a lot."

"I think you're the asshat."

"Maybe." He groaned as his stomach clenched again out of spite. "It didn't go badly," he answered finally. "It...went."

"You were expecting fireworks and possibly a crashing orchestral number?"

"Hoping. Not expecting." Sam pushed himself up shakily and reached for his toothbrush. "I got out about seven new words. I'm practically a human."

He could see Dean's flinch behind him in the mirror. "You're always human, Sammy. Stop."

"Whatever." He brushed his teeth with a moodiness he generally reserved for Dean's poor sense of humor.

His brother put his hands up. "Okay. How do I help?" he inquired grandly.

"You can't help with this one, Dean!" he whined around his toothbrush. "I gotta just ease into it. Four years from now, if he and I are still at the same school, I'll be at the point where I can ask him to dinner, which will be a blast, since I can't talk to him, even if he's not married by then."

"Wow," Dean remarked dryly. "Nothing like a little pep talk before the game."

Sam glared into his own eyes, and spat. He rinsed his mouth and returned the toothbrush before turning and speaking again. He felt miserable. "It's so stupid. I spent so much energy trying to get to this point. I guess I thought it would somehow make a difference if I could just get to this point. But how could it? He's this amazing, passionate man, and I can't even ask him to dinner, because even if I could figure out how, I wouldn't be able to talk to him while we ate. I'm more likely to throw up on him."

Dean was listening. It surprised Sam a little bit. Not that Dean wasn't attentive, but he often had trouble focusing on one problem at a time, especially if he had not yet been given a role in fixing it. "Okay," he said slowly. "But there are so many different things you could do instead of dinner. Dinner is always scary, dude. Don't do dinner. You'll just set yourself up to fail. Seriously."

"Then what?"

A slow smile brightened Dean's face, and Sam cringed. That was the look Dean got when he was plotting.

 

***

 

Castiel's students were their usual selves, a fascinating combination of obnoxious and adorable, but with the added overtired hyperactivity of Friday. He adjusted his lesson plan the moment the first group of kids walked through the door. Three were crying and five were laughing hysterically. It was just that time of year. So he held Mr. Drosme's story time, which never failed to amuse them. He managed to sneak in quite a bit of actual content without them realizing it, and they got to go home thinking they had gotten him completely off-topic and had skipped out on work. It was win-win, so far as Castiel could see.

Performing all day was exhausting, but nervous energy kept him afloat until school was out. Several students had commented that he looked especially good today, and two mentioned he may have had too much coffee again. He was never entirely sure if the kids were laughing with him or at him, but so long as they learned their material and were having fun while being respectful, he didn't mind.

And he had taken extra care with his clothes today. It was Friday, and the teachers were permitted to wear jeans. He often forgot and missed the small benefit for the week, but today, he was in a pair of dark blue jeans and black belt, with a button down and blue sweater vest over his blue tie, with his black wire glasses. He had shaved meticulously, and had spent entirely too long staring himself down in the mirror. In addition to the students, whom he trusted to be honest far more, two of the female teachers and one female guidance counselor had indicated that he had succeeded in his attempt at cleaning himself up. The theatre teacher had actually used the word "edible." Castiel was not sure what to think of that, but it had amused both government teacher Mr. Henricksen and Sergeant Trenton from Junior ROTC, who were standing behind him at the time that Ms. Chandler had purred at him on her way by.

Castiel was pushing his papers around his desk anxiously when a knock came at the door. He looked up. "Come in!" he called, wondering who else had not bolted for the parking lot the minute they were able on a Friday afternoon.

The large man who entered was probably the last person he had expected to see. "Mr. Dromse?"

He opened his mouth to correct the pronunciation, then stopped when his brain caught up with his vision. "Coach Winchester? Is...Can I help you?"

"I don't know," the man said airily. "Would you like to?"

He frowned, then rose to his feet. "If I can. Is something wrong?" A thought popped into his mind, making his eyes widen in alarm. "Is something wrong with...with Sam?"

Dean watched him carefully. "Sam's fine," he said thoughtfully. "I just wanted to ask a favor."

Relief splashed his face. "Oh. Yes, of course. "

"It's a little stupid. I'm having my brother do some research for me. That's what he does, you know. Research."

Castiel was instantly fascinated. "Does he? For what?"

"Whatever somebody needs. Freelance, you know? He's a certified archivist or whatever. He spends most of his days elbow-deep in old, dusty books and articles nobody else cares about. And I need some statistics for my continuing ed class. He's going to work on it, and wanted to do it tonight. But I realized he and I drove together this morning, and I gotta be at a meeting on the other side of town. He's got to get to the county library. Do you think you could just drop him off there? He can walk home, I guess. It's looking like it's going to rain, though." He shrugged. "Anyway, he always says you're like the last one to leave anyway. Could you help me out?"

He stared at the man. "I...don't know. You really think Sam would be okay with that?"

"Sure. He likes you. You're literally the only teacher he ever speaks to. And he talks about you after work."

Castiel felt his heart beginning to pound. "He does? I am? But...why?"

Dean shrugged. "You're a good guy. All the kids love you."

"They...do?"

Castiel was getting the distinct impression that the coach was trying not to roll his eyes. "Yeah. If I gotta hear another retelling of Napoleon taking Moscow in the locker room, I'm going to go KGB on your ass.”

He felt like the man was joking, so he laughed and refrained from reminding him that the KGB was not active at the time of Napoleon I. “Sorry about that. We get very into our Eastern European wars in this room.”

“I can tell.” Dean cleared his throat. “So...about the favor?”

“Oh! Yes, of course I...You know, I mean, if that’s all right with Sam, I’d be happy to...Does he really talk about me after work?”

This time, Dean went ahead and rolled his eyes. “Ad nauseum.”

Pleasure flushed Castiel’s face in one quick rush of warm pink. “That’s...I’m glad to...Thank you for-I’m happy I can help. You know. Sam. Help him. And you, of course.”

Dean nodded at him as though he were placating an idiot. “Okay. Well, I’m going to get to my meeting, then.”

“Oh!” Castiel smiled shakily. “Of course. You know...But I was wondering. About Sam.”

Green eyes narrowed just slightly. “What about him?”

He chewed on his lip. Then he took a deep breath and asked what he had wanted to know since he had first met Sam. “Is Sam...Is your brother…”

“Gay? Yeah.”

Castiel’s heart lurched in his chest, and nearly threw him off balance. He gaped at Dean’s smirk. “No! That isn’t what I...I mean, good! Definitely good. Fine, I mean. That’s fine. But not what I was going to ask. At all.”

Dean waited, and there was a spark of amusement mixing with impatience in the cool gaze.

“Is he...as smart as he seems?”

And now the green eyes widened, and there came a soft smile to Dean’s face. He chuckled quietly. “Yeah,” he huffed. “Genius level doesn’t begin to describe it.” He nodded his approval. “I’m surprised you can tell. A lot of folks think ‘cause he doesn't speak, he’s an idiot. I hate that. I don’t think I hate anything more in the world than I hate folks assuming he’s stupid. They talk down to him. They think he’s this Lenny character, big and dumb. Guy went to Stanford on a full academic ride, graduated summa cum laude. He was an English major, but he took four semesters of practical physics just because he could. He does freelance research for writers and folks, just because he needs something to work his brain. Yeah, man. He’s real smart.”

Castiel was smiling happily. He couldn’t help it. “I thought so. He...Just the way he looks at things and listens...And he’s always got a book on him. I don’t know when he gets time to read, but it’s a different one almost every day. I even started…” He could feel his blush getting ridiculous now. He lowered his eyes. “I’ve been taking note of the title and authors, so I can get the same ones at the library. I guess that’s crazy?”

“A little,” Dean confirmed with a laugh.

He nodded. “But they’re all incredible. Science, a lot of it. Every Hawking book. Sagan. An amazing pair called _Brother Astronomer_ and _God’s Mechanics_. Simon Winchester and Gould, then the next day it’s Jung. He’ll fly through _Harry Potter_ -the whole series twice, by the way; I noticed that-then _Game of Thrones. Ender’s Game, Dune_ , Orwell and Bradbury and...Then sometimes it’s something like _The Dancing Wu Li Masters_...I’m just blown away by his choices. I peek at his cart every time he comes in, and I’m always so excited to find out what he’s reading and...I feel like I know him, and he’s only ever spoken two or three sentences to me. Ever. I’ve been trying to keep up with his reading choices for a year and a half now. I’ve never known a man who wanted so much to know everything there is to know...It must be amazing inside his head.”

Admitting to Sam’s brother that he had been in an imaginary book club with the silent man, since he had first noticed the books on the custodian cart, was probably an exercise in poor judgement. But he couldn’t help himself. For the first time in all these lonely months, there was someone he could talk to about the fascinating enigma called Sam. He knew it was crazy. Of course it was crazy. But he had tried to refocus on something-someone-anything!-else. Each time he had been close to accomplishing this goal, Sam would bring in Asimov or Douglas Adams, and Castiel would fall even harder than before.

Dean didn’t seem to mind. “Wow. Sam’s got a friend as nerdy as him. Didn’t think such a thing existed.”

Friend. Sam’s friend. The concept meant everything to Castiel.

“You should talk to him about that. About the books you’ve both read. Sometimes, if he don’t have to look in somebody’s eyes, he can be coaxed into talking about something he’s read. I guess because it isn’t about him. I don’t know. He can go on for hours about some of those damn books if you can get him to talk at all.”

“I...don't want to make him uncomfortable."

Dean sighed. "Nah. He's gonna do that to himself. Anyway, thanks. I'll let him know."

Castiel chewed on his lip after Dean had gone. This was it. His chance.

He grimaced suddenly, and grabbed his keys. He needed to clean out his car.

 

***

 

Dean was laughing to himself. He pushed open the door to the coaches' office to find his brother staring at his trash bin from his desk chair. Now he frowned. "Throw up in there, and I'm going to be pissed."

"It'd be my job to clean it up."

"I'd still be pissed. And so would Walker and Brick."

"Walker can kiss my ass. He's a bastard. So? What did he...?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "It was like playing matchmaker for the nerdiest couple on the planet. And if you think this guy isn't into you, you are wrong. So wrong you’ve never been wronger.”

“I don’t think that’s a w-Wait, why? What did he say?”

He shrugged. “Go ask him yourself.”

The bitchface his brother gave him was beautiful. A work of art, really. Dean was impressed. “Screw you.”

He sat at Gordon’s desk and put his feet up on it. “Let’s just say he appreciates the same literary entertainment you do. Nerdiest. Couple. On the planet.”

Sam looked both intrigued and terrified at the same time. “How does he know what I…?”

“Dude, you leave your books on your cart.”

He took a breath, and Dean could see his face losing color. “I...didn’t think anybody ever noticed.”

“He’s noticed you,” Dean confirmed, and this time his voice was gentle. He smiled softly at his brother. “It’s okay, Sammy. I like him. He’s a good guy. And don’t think he isn’t as terrified to talk to people as you are. His anxiety just manifests differently, that’s all. Guy stutters and blushes more than I ever saw you do. He’s a mess.”

“I’d give just about anything to be that kind of mess.”

It tugged at Dean’s heart, and he cringed. “I know, man. I’m sorry. But, look. Your doctor says you’re ready to try this, right? It’s been a long, long time since you tried this. When was the last time?”

He licked his lips. His elbows were on his knees, and his gaze was on the trashcan. “Stanford. The one year I tried having a housemate in my apartment. Brady and his girlfriend Jess. I got to where I could sometimes...you know...ask them questions, so long as they didn’t try to ask me anything. I could write them notes too. It wasn't easy. Most days, wasn't worth it. But I didn't have my doctor then."

"See? You're better than before, dude. Even I can see that, when you're with me. You can do this. I know you can."

"And if I screw it all up, I didn't lose anything for trying. Right? I mean, it'll be hard to go into his classroom every day. But I'm not a child. I can do it."

"Sure. But I don't think you need to worry about that. He already likes you, Sammy. Just try to breathe. Okay? Don't try to talk in the car. He ain't going to just drop you off like I asked him to. He's going to stay, and drive you home. You'll have plenty of time while you're there. And it's a library. That's your turf."

Sam smiled at that. "God, that sounds so lame. It's amazing that it's actually a comforting thought."

Dean laughed. "That's because you're lame. But it's true, right? Home court advantage?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Dean...thank you. For thinking of this and helping me. No other guy must need his brother like this."

This made Dean sigh, and his stomach knotted suddenly. "Yeah. You're right. No other guy must need his brother like I've always needed you."

"That's not what I-"

"I've leaned on you our whole lives, man. In public, I might've helped you some. But just the two of us, you've been there for me every step of the way. You helped me pass my math courses in college. Dude, you bought the same textbook so you could look at it and talk me through it over the phone. And when I got overwhelmed in student teaching, with all the paperwork and crap, you talked me down from the ledge a hundred times. You come to every wrestling match, and listen to me talk about it constantly. And when I lost Lisa and Ben..." He cleared the emotion out of his throat. "When I lost the woman I love and the son I thought of as mine...You were there through every drink and every tear. I would not have gotten through any of this without you. I'm always happy to help you, Sammy. It's nice to be the big brother once in a while."

He knew he had never said these things out loud before, but the stricken look on Sam's face told him he had not managed to show his gratitude at all.

It shamed him into speaking again. "You're going to be fine. I get the feeling this guy knows exactly how amazing you are. He's been pining after you for months, dude. Go throw him a bone."

Once he had succeeded in tossing his brother into action, he sighed and gathered up his things to leave for home. He was suddenly very tired. His head ached in a too-familiar way. Without realizing what he was doing, he locked the office door and reached for his wallet to take out a very old photo. He smiled at it as the ache moved to his heart. "And what do you think, Mom?" he whispered. "Would you recognize me? Sam, you'd be so proud of. But me. I'm ninety percent crap. Mostly a fraud. I have nothing without Sam. I am nothing. And every day, he's getting better, and every day, I'm dying a little more. Dad gives him a hard time but he doesn't realize I'm the one hanging on by a thread."

He snorted softly. "You know...all Dad said when she left me? He said he saw it coming. Didn't say he was sorry. Didn't ask if I was okay. Said he saw it coming. And you know what he meant. He meant I'm just like him, and it was bound to happen. Would you have left him, Mom? I think he thinks you would have. If you'd lived long enough, you would have given up on him like she gave up on me. I love the man, but you were too good for him. Just like she's too good for me. And Ben's better off without me."

He stared at his mother until tears blocked his vision. He gasped in a breath and shut his eyes against it, but this just forced out a tear. "I miss him, Mom," he hissed through clenched teeth. "I miss him so much. I know he's not mine. But it felt like he was. And I blew it. And...and now I'm just hanging on, and it's mostly for Sam, and if he doesn't need me...And I don’t want him to. I want him to be happy on his own. For now he needs me. But one day he won't, and I'll finally be nothing."

He collapsed back into his desk chair. His shaking hands returned the sacred photograph to its place. "I'm just too tired, Mom," he whispered.

Out came the cellphone, and he selected a name from his contacts. It rang too many times. Finally a voice came over the line. "Dean?"

"Hey, Ben," he said in a strained voice.

"Hey! What's up?"

Green eyes squeezed shut. "Ben, I just...Do you have a minute?"

"Of course!"

He ran his hand down his face. "Ben, I don't think I ever said how sorry I am. I'm so sorry, man. I just...I never...I would never hurt you on purpose. Do you know that?"

There was silence on the other end.

What was left of Dean's heart shattered. He could feel sobs pushing out of his throat, and it was all he could do to hold it back.

Finally, the boy spoke again, quietly. "Dean, it never occurred to me that you would ever hurt me on purpose. Ever. You were trying to keep me from being hurt. I know that."

He couldn't help sucking in the deep, strangling breath, even when he knew Ben would hear that he was crying. "I'm so sorry. I was just so angry, and I needed you to not be near me, and I shoved you away, because...because I didn't trust me. You deserved so much better than me. I'm so sorry."

"Dean? That was a long time ago."

"That was last night. And every night since it happened. I think about it every day, how I let you down."

"I'm fine. You didn't hurt me. Just...scared me a little."

"Not just that. The whole way I acted. Ben, I love you, kid. I was stupid, and I'll never forgive myself for blowing my chance to be your dad. It took losing your mom for me to understand how important you are to me. For what it's worth by now, you were a great son, and I'm so proud of you." His stomach was churning angrily. "Is your mom there? I want to tell her how sorry I am. She should hear it too."

"Dean..."

"Please." He licked his trembling, salty lips. "Ben, if I could snap my fingers and erase all memory of me from your minds, I would. But I can't. The best I can do is tell you how sorry I am that the memories aren't good ones.”

He heard the sigh. It sounded like pure disappointment to his ears. “Dean, have you been drinking?”

There it was. How many times had he said that to John? When the man got emotional, it was his first thought. Dad, have you been drinking? Dean huffed a bitter laugh. “No, Ben. Not yet.”

“Then shut up. Okay? You get that we’re your family, right? You get that you walked out on your family?”

“It isn’t that simple, Ben.” But he made himself listen, because it was what he deserved to hear. Ben deserved the chance to say his piece, and Dean deserved to suffer it.

“Whatever. You loved us. I know you did. You said so, and you meant it.”

“Of course I did.”

“Then don’t you dare say you would take those memories from me. From us. You were the…” Ben took a big breath, as if gathering strength. “You are the only dad I ever had. You’ll always be my dad. I’m just waiting for you to get your act together so you can come back and do it from here. It’s what Mom’s waiting for too.”

His whole body was shaking now. “Ben, I...Ben, your mother is dating a nice guy. A doctor, right? Nice guy,” he choked out painfully. “Just because you love someone, Ben, that doesn’t mean you should stick around and ruin their lives. I’m done dragging your mom down. And she’s done with it too.”

There was anger in the boy’s voice now. “Yeah? Why don’t you treat her with the respect you used to, and let her make her own damn decisions?”

“Benjamin!” he scolded automatically, then drew in his breath. “I-I’m sorry. You’re not my-”

“Dean, if you say I’m not your kid, I swear to God I’m never going to speak to you again. You know what my dad would say about this whole thing? About you not getting over yourself enough to ask my mom if she’s ready for you to come home? My dad? He’d say man up! And if Mom wasn’t around to hear him, he’d probably tell you to grow a pair and add a spine!”

The laugh and sobs competed against one another until he was breathless. “Grow a pair and add a spine,” he repeated. “Ben, it might be too late to take my own advice.”

“Maybe it is,” Ben admitted. “But it would mean the world to me if you’d just try. She says no, she says no. But your son will know you tried.”

He swiped at the tears on his face. “When the hell did you grow up?”

“One of us had to.”

God, he was proud of that kid. “So that’s what you want? Me to go grovel to your mom and let her kick me off her porch?”

“You said you were sorry. That would prove it to me that you really are. No matter what she says.”

Dean nodded to himself. “What the hell?” he sighed. “Your uncle Sam’s taking the biggest chance of his life tonight. It’s only fair I do too.”

He could practically hear the grin. “Want some advice?”

He chuckled as fear knotted his stomach. “Yeah,” he breathed. “All I can get.”

 

***

 

Sam was smiling softly into his stack of books. It was the most at ease Castiel could ever remember having seen him. He still had not spoken, but he had treated the teacher to a beam of pure sunshine when he had said he wouldn’t mind staying until Sam had finished, and then drive him home. Since it was going to rain, he had added quickly.

Shy sunshine. That was Sam all over.

And Sam was all over. He had moved through this library, as Castiel watched, like a man on a mission. It was like he knew the stacks by heart, could find the books he needed and the files in the archives by listening for them. That was it, Castiel decided, with a warmth filling him. Sam could hear the tiny voices singing out to him in this place. The silent man was in his element here. At school, and the time he had seen Sam at the bar, there was a constant look of controlled panic. But here…

Castiel sighed happily.

“What do you read?”

He blinked. The voice was so familiar, and so alien all at the same time. Sam’s eyes were on his research journal, but it was as though he were staring at it too hard. Castiel smiled nervously. His words were difficult to push out, but if Sam could ask, he could respond. “For the past year? Whatever you read,” he confessed breathlessly. “I...This will probably sound insane. It is insane. But I always look at whatever book you’ve got on you when you come in my room. I add it to my list, and as soon as I can, I read it too. It’s become a sort of guilty pleasure, I suppose. Is that...Does that weird you out? Because...I don’t mean to make it seem like…” He stopped. What did it seem like?

“Your favorite?” Sam was smiling down at his journal now, as he made crisp little scratches into it. Sam’s handwriting was at once delicate and precise, and yet complete hieroglyphics. Beautiful nonsense. The voice was still a whisper, but here in the library, it was not out of place.

“My favorite? I...I couldn’t even say! I can’t keep up. I love the physics books, but I won’t claim to understand it all. Maybe the historical fiction stuff. I’ve always liked historical-No, that _Dancing Wu Li Masters_ one. Oh! But no. You got me addicted to Robert Jordan, and then the damn man died before finishing the series. That was just brutal. Bradbury. Definitely Bradbury. _Helter Skelter_ messed me up for weeks. _Devil in the White City_...What is it like inside your head?”

And now Sam was laughing silently, just small shaking of his shoulders. His smile was wide now, and he ventured a glance up at Castiel.

It took his breath away.

Then Sam's eyes released him, and he could breathe again. The hazel enigmas returned to their work, and for a while, there was silence again. Castiel found that he didn't mind the silence. It might have been awkward in another setting, perhaps if they were eating dinner together or something, but here in the library, it was perfectly comfortable.

Eventually, Sam stole a peek at the book sitting in front of Castiel. He smiled. "One of my favorites," he murmured.

Castiel blinked down at the book. "Really?" he blurted out. "I'm hating it!" Horror came over him now, and he back-pedaled. "I mean, it's well-written, of course, obviously! It just..."

But Sam was chuckling again. "I'd be worried if you did like it. It's savage."

The teacher relaxed again. "It's horrible. You go through these awful stages of really dark stuff, Sam! And you take me there with you. I think I prefer your academic pursuits!"

Sam's fingers reached out and brushed the cover of Capote's masterpiece. The movement made Castiel's stomach warm. "It is academic," he whispered in a loving tone. "A study in broken humanity."

Castiel's lips parted, but nothing came out.

"Like _Titus Andronicus_. It's a study in just how dark humans can become, how inhuman they can become. It's the same to me as reading _The Art of Choosing_. It's...it's the story of the humanity we try to keep hidden. It's there, in most of us. The thing that makes us human is our desire to keep that darkness leashed. And some of us can't or don't."

While Castiel stared, Sam removed his hand and went back to work as though he had not spoken at all. But Castiel craved more. "How...Sam, how do you choose what you'll read next? One day, it's _Harry Potter_ , and the next, it's Hersey's _Hiroshima_! You had me reading _Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_ right before _Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee_! I mean...is there a method to your madness?"

For the first time, Sam smiled into his face while he talked, made delicious eye contact. "In my defense, I didn't know I was running a book club."

"You've become my slightly macabre literary guru."

This elicited a delighted laugh, as though Castiel had stumbled upon the perfect compliment. "I don't know. I guess it depends on my mood. I never keep a book after I read it. If I've bought it, I donate it; if I've borrowed it, I return it for another. I read them too fast to keep them."

"Your house would be full."

"Exactly."

It was amazing, surreal, to find himself in easy conversation with Silent Sam. "But you went through _Harry Potter_ twice," Castiel pointed out.

"I've read those four or five times. But I get them from here each time."

"So? How do you choose?"

He shrugged and sat back to wet his lips. He was still lowering his gaze whenever Castiel spoke, but he looked back up to respond. "It's just whatever I want to learn at the time. It isn't entertainment if I don't come away with something, and I don't come away with something if it isn't intelligent. I'm just curious. I choose books based on what made me curious that day. If I see one of my brother's wrestlers pushing to keep his muscle mass but not increase his weight category, it makes me wonder about the sport, about the diets of athletes, about human anatomy, about will power and genetics. If I see a guy in an expensive suit walk past another man asking for money, it makes me wonder about class inequality and factors surrounding generosity and desperation, and how humans distance themselves from one another."

"Like the way you call me Mister instead of Cas?"

For a painful moment, Castiel feared he had broken the spell, had jolted Sam out of his comfort zone by reminding him who they both were. But finally, Sam sighed and shrugged again. "Maybe," he whispered. "I just thought it was polite. Respectful. But maybe that's the real reason I do it."

"I'd like for you to call me Cas. If...Unless you'd rather keep your distance." He looked into Sam's eyes with hope he couldn't tamper down.

Sam was quiet for another moment. "No. I...don't think I'd like to keep my distance...But I may occasionally need to. Would that...be all right?"

"Absolutely. Whatever you need. I just..." Castiel took a deep breath. "I just don't want this to be our first and last conversation. I...I like you, Sam." He pushed the words out, and prayed they came out in the right order. "I'd like to see you outside of school. Regularly. Here, if that's where you're comfortable. Could we...do that? Could we come here, maybe on Fridays-It wouldn't have to be Fridays, but I know it's the best time for me. But anytime. And if you didn't want it to be-"

"Cas."

He gasped, then sighed it out.

Sam was smiling at him. "I like you too. And I really like being here with you. Friday evenings at the library. I would love that."

Castiel licked his lips and smiled through his excitement. He did not trust himself to speak.

"I may not be able to sometimes. Or if I can, I may not...be able to talk." He laughed sadly. "I'm going to go home and sleep eighteen hours straight after this."

"It'll give me time to catch up on Capote and Eggers before seeing you Monday if you sleep all weekend. I'd appreciate you letting me catch up. You read much faster than I do."

Sam chuckled. He tipped his head forward, and his hair fell in front of his eyes. "I'm serious."

"So am I." Castiel smiled, and reached across the table to gently touch the man's hand. It felt like an electric shock running straight to his elbow. "Sam, I will do whatever you need if you'll give me a chance. I'm so intrigued by you. If you need...I can see you’re exhausted already. I just want you to know how much I appreciate you putting out the effort...for me. You can’t know how much that means to me. To say I’ve hung on your every word for the past year will sound ridiculous, but it’s true. I’ve been grateful every time you’ve smiled, or...or when I can see you want to. I don’t think I will ever take that smile for granted, ever.”

The searing emotion in Sam’s eyes was mixing with fear. So Castiel slipped his hand away, careful not to be too abrupt. Then he lowered his own eyes, in case that made it easier for Sam. He was moving too fast, he chided himself with a sigh. He was going to freak Sam out, make him bolt, ruin any-

And oh God, Sam’s lips were on his. Soft, tender, chaste...Castiel felt a warm shudder run through his stomach all the way to his groin, felt his throat and chest tighten, felt his breath hitch.

When Sam leaned back, Castiel made a sorrowful sound, like his heart was being pulled from him along with Sam's lips.

Sam smiled at him. "Thank you. I'm ready to go home now."

Castiel was staring at him. He swallowed hard and licked his lips, trying to refocus his brain, to function in this new world where he knew what Sam Winchester's lips felt like. "You...you-Did you finish your...research?"

The hazel eyes lowered shyly. "I've found out everything I need to know. I'm just very...tired."

This jump-started Castiel. He grabbed his book and stood on shaky legs. "All right. I'm, uh, yes. Good. Let me just..."

And Sam was laughing at him again, but he found that he didn't mind.

 

***

 

There was a siren in the distance, and for one irrational moment, Dean thought perhaps Lisa had seen him sitting outside and called them. But of course the sirens faded away.

Their divorce was nearly final. He was technically still her husband. But after a year of living at Sam's more than he was home, and another seven months of legal separation, the hours were just ticking by until he wasn't anymore. Sam had been trying to get him in the habit of referring to Lisa as his ex-wife, especially now that she was dating again. He was hoping it would remind Dean to stop thinking of her as his endgame. He supposed it was Sam's way of trying to help him move on.

There wasn't any moving on past Lisa and Ben. There never would be.

He had attended anger management sessions in order to earn visitation with Ben. Lisa had required it, even if the judge had not. It had been humiliating, but he had done it. And he couldn't honestly say it hadn't helped. Even Sam had told him a few months ago that he didn't seem to be as much of a control freak as he used to be.

Dean had been sitting in the Impala for going on twenty minutes. It had gotten dark around him, and the open windows were letting in a bit of a brisk breeze. But he felt feverish. His stomach hurt, his mouth was dry, his throat was sweating, and it was hard to breathe.

He wondered if perhaps this was what it was like for Sam all the time. He hoped not. This was just awful.

Rolling his eyes at his own quiet panic, he forced himself out of the car and down the walkway to the porch step. He glanced at the yard with a sigh. "Needs mowing," he said softly.

"My lawn guy's been out."

Dean nearly fell right back off the porch. He gave a small yelp.

Lisa was sitting in the bench swing, still as a shadow.

"Jesus, Lise!" he hissed. "Scared the piss out of me!"

She nodded. "I can see that. I sit on the porch a lot more now that I don't spend my evenings arguing with my husband. Would you like to sit with me?"

His heart continued to race, but he climbed in beside her. Without meaning to, he put his arm around the back of the bench, then cringed and drew it back. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's all right," she said lightly. When he hesitantly returned the arm, she leaned on him and sighed. "Remember back when we fit together like this?"

Dean frowned. "Lisa..."

"I waited like a half hour for you to get out of your car, jackass. Indulge me."

He snorted. "Yeah, I remember."

"Remember that picnic we did? While Ben was at baseball practice?"

"Picnic? No," he admitted, "I don't-"

"That's because we never did that. Remember all the barbecues we threw for the neighbors? You at the grill, me chatting with the girls, Ben socializing?"

He sighed, and removed his arm to place his elbows on his knees in misery. "No. I don't."

"Hm. We must not have done that either."

"I'm so sorry, Lise."

"Don't be sorry. We each did the best we could at the time." She sat up and looked at him with a weariness he definitely remembered. "Why are you here, Dean?"

"If I said I wanted to take you to a picnic and host a barbecue, would it make any difference?"

She laughed sadly. "It's a little late."

He nodded and stared down at his feet. "What if I said I wanted to be Ben's dad again? What if I said I want to be your husband, and that I would do anything to show you how sorry I am that I was always angry? What if I told you I'm not angry anymore, just really, really ashamed of letting you down?"

"What if I told you I don't sleep as well without you holding me?"

From nowhere, a sudden sob struck him, and he couldn't breathe without gasping. "I'm so, so sorry. You and Ben...I didn't know I was out of time. I kept thinking I'd have time to make it better. I never thought you'd give up on me."

"I never gave up on you, Dean. But I can't let Ben grow up in a cloud of anger like you did. Your dad did the best he could too, Dean. But it wasn't enough. He didn't mean to pass it on. His father disappointed him, then he lost Mary, and he loved you the best he could with a broken heart. You grew up afraid, Dean, and you became angry, all the time. I can't let that happen to Ben."

The tears ran down his nose to fall between his feet. "I'd never hurt you," he insisted in a strangled whisper. "Never. I would never..."

"You shoved my kid, Dean, because you were so angry you couldn't trust yourself not to hurt him. You scared him. That hurt me."

"I know," he cried. "I know. I'm so sorry, Lise. I'm so..." He couldn't say it again. It didn't even mean anything anymore. So he said the last thing that did mean something. "Lisa, I will never stop loving you, and I'll never stop being grateful that you gave me a chance to be his dad. I'll never forgive myself for losing you."

Lisa's hand was on his arm. "So do it better this time."

He was nodding before the words caught up with his brain. He went very still then, and was afraid even to breathe.

"Dean?"

"This time?" He lifted his eyes to look at her.

She shrugged. "Don't you think it's time you came home?"

"N-no! I mean, yes!" He stumbled to his feet and stared at her.

Her smile was brilliant. Lisa was a beautiful woman, with an incredible body, but her smile would always be the thing that gave Dean life. "Which is it? It's kind of important to get this right."

Dean dropped down in front of her and grabbed her small hands in his. He stared up into her eyes with all the hope in his heart. "You...you said...too late!"

"Too late," she agreed, "to pretend we can fix what was. So let's build something new, better. Something that will last this time. I'll try if you will."

His forehead lowered to her hands. "Lise, I will do anything. I-I'll call my sponsor, okay? I'll call Benny, tell him to schedule me for every meeting, and I'll...I'll buy a grill!"

Lisa's laugh could light up the entire block. Dean didn't even know why he bothered installing the flood lights all that time ago. He could feel that smile from a mile away. It was both every lovely dream and every taunting nightmare. It was every shot glass and every late night call to Benny. It was everything he wanted.

He watched her with painfully sharp hope in his eyes. "Lise, please. If you give me a chance, I'll do everything right this time. I've thought through every stupid thing I ever did, and I know how to do it better. I...I'm...."

Lisa put her hand on his cheek, and sighed. "Get up, Dean."

"I can't," he wept.

"Dean, you need to stop saying how sorry you are. I know you're sorry. So am I. It was never just you, Dean. We were both too busy in our own heads. This time, we'll put each other and Ben first. I think if we focus on that, neither of us has to take any blame."

He blinked at her. It had never crossed his mind, in all this time, that Lisa did not consider him entirely to blame. "It's my job to make you feel safe. To make you happy. Both of you."

"No, Dean. That's part of our problem. And you do the same thing with your brother too. And your dad. You and I were never the team we should have been. I didn't tell you what I needed, and you didn't trust us to work together. Everything always fell on your shoulders, because you wouldn't let me be your teammate, and I didn't have the confidence to assert myself. It was so nice being taken care of for the first time that I forgot I know perfectly well how to take care of Ben and me by myself. This time, we're not letting you take everything on yourself. Like you do with the rest of your family. You're going to step back and let me and Ben take care of you too."

He couldn't help the panic welling in his eyes. "Lise," he whimpered.

She smiled softly. "That's the only way it'll work, Dean. When you're hurting, you let it build until you lash out, and then you hate yourself for it, and it’s a horrible cycle. I need to step up. And you'll need to let me."

He shook his head, then dropped his chin to his chest. "I don't..."

"I'll teach you. If you really want to come home, Dean, you'll work on not trying to take on the world by yourself. It's got to be different this time. So do you want to come home?"

"More than anything."

Her smile warmed the chill of fear in his chest. "Let's start with pizza and soda with Ben tonight. He's waiting inside. Then maybe tomorrow you can come over, and we'll come up with a plan."

Dean found himself looking at the door wistfully. "He's..."

"Come on. Come eat dinner with your son."

Relief and gratitude filled him all over. He stood and helped her up, and thrilled with the way she moved into him as they reached for the door. "Lise? I want that picnic. Okay? I want all that. I'm...ready for that."

She nodded and let him into the house where their marriage had come to an end. "Me too," she said softly.

Ben winked at him as he walked into the living room where the boy had the football game on. "Dean? You want bacon and peppers, right?"

Dean watched the boy put a slice on a plate and set it on the coffee table in front of what used to be Dean's space on the couch. His swollen eyes crinkled as he grinned. "Yeah," he breathed. "Sounds good."

It sounded amazing.

 

***

 

Castiel had never moved so slowly in a physical relationship before, but he had never gotten to know someone so completely either. Certainly, no one had ever known him so well as Sam did within just a few more weeks. Sam still listened far more than he talked, and Castiel learned to speak without stammering and second-guessing himself quite so much. Daily visits to the classroom were spent much as they always had been, but there were more smiles, and "Mister" was said in a teasing tone now.

They had standing dates at the library, but they ventured to cafes where they could sit alone outside after them. Castiel told Sam about his family one Friday evening as they sat outside under an umbrella, sipping hot coffee, while it rained around them.

"My father is MIA, presumed dead, in Pakistan or Afghanistan. He was along the border in combat last we heard. Then...nothing. My brothers, Mike and Luke, they're stationed overseas. My mother is gone. I took her maiden name a few years back. I was more of her legacy than my father's, and I think they'd all agree."

"They wanted you to go into the military?" Sam prompted.

"So much that my brother Mike put me into training by the time I was double digits. I guess I could field strip a weapon in my sleep. But I never got to where I wanted to use one."

Sam laughed quietly. "In Kansas, it was hunting. Always hunting. My big brother could hit any target, from any distance. If he could see it, he could hit it. And I wasn't so bad either. We'd go out at four in the morning, then by three that afternoon, we'd be at a pub making our money for the week."

"You worked at a pub?"

This time the laugh was less shy. "Yeah. You could call it that. We each had our specialities. Dean and Dad alternated hustling pool and playing poker. Nobody could put on a show at a pool table like my big brother," he said with clear fondness.

Castiel smirked. "And you?"

"Darts. I'd stand at the board all night. Dean would take bets for me, and I wouldn't have to talk to anybody or even look at them. All I had to do was throw, till nobody would bet or play against me anymore that night. Then I'd sit and watch Dean and Dad, or I'd go out to the car, and nap or read till they were done. It was like a traveling circus came to town whenever the Winchester family came back from a Saturday hunt."

Castiel burst into laughter. "We should go out with Coach Winchester one night so I can see you two in action."

Sam smiled at the idea. "Maybe," he allowed. "We haven't done it like that for years. He'll place a friendly bet on my darts now and then, but I don't think I was old enough to drink legally the last time we made a whole night of it. My dad called it learning a trade to fall back on."

"Hustling was your safety net?"

He snickered. "Yeah. I guess so. Now what do you think of me?"

"I think you're awesome. And beautiful. And amazing."

Sam was blushing now. "Why? What was your fallback plan? Something respectable, probably."

"I hate to call the Air Force or Navy a backup plan. But that was it for me. I either made it as a civilian or I had to go back to living that life."

Sam shook his head in wonder. "My dad was a Marine, infantry. I know how brutal that life is. Most people worry they wouldn't cut it in the military. You were worried about making it in the civilian world?"

"That life was all my brothers and I knew. We were officers, from a family of officers. I'm the only one who would rather read and teach about a war than muster up."

Sam touched his hand. "I'm glad."

"So am I."

Castiel became quickly attuned to Sam's needs and preferences. He knew to ask what the man would like before a waiter came to their table. He knew to not expect conversation to continue if someone else was sitting too near. Over time, it got to be a rhythm, the lively but quiet conversation followed by moments of hushed, comfortable companionship, if others were around.

Sam debated fiercely with him the merits of certain works of literature, and they argued over which book they should read next.

"You know," Sam teased finally, while rubbing his thumb over Castiel's long fingers, "you don't have to read what I choose."

Castiel stared at him in horror. "That's not...that's not an option at this point. It's just not! Whatever you pick, I'm reading. I'm just trying to steer you away from true crime for a while, just long enough for me to start sleeping at night again."

The man burst into laughter, letting his hair fall in front of those sweet eyes, and dimpling his cheeks in that mischievous way that made Castiel's stomach warm. "Saviano's _Gomorrah_ not sitting well with you?"

"So. Much. Gore."

"It's a true story, man. They can't skimp on the details."

"They could. They really could."

Sam shrugged. "So we'll give you some recovery time. What were you thinking?" He reached up to brush the fingertips of his other hand along Castiel's jaw, swiping lovingly at the stubble there.

Castiel's heart swam in the attention.

"Cas?" Sam laughed quietly. "What would you like to read?"

"Oh." He shook himself back. "Have you read _The Clan of the Cave Bear_?"

"No."

"Neither have I."

Sam shrugged again. "Okay. We'll read it."

"Don't you want to know what it's about?"

"Is that important? Is it a smart read?"

"It looks smart. Historical fiction."

A look of pure, indulgent adoration came over Sam's face then. "You and your historical fiction. Okay, Cas. Let's do it like this. Let's choose a book a week to read together. You choose this week. I'll get next week, and it'll be your turn again."

Castiel couldn't help the happy sigh that came from deep inside. Sam was still touching his face, holding his hand, talking in that soft voice...

"Cas?"

"So...you're planning on this working out at least three more weeks?" he breathed.

Sam looked startled. "I..." He licked his lips and his hands ceased their movements. Castiel was sorry for that. "I don't mean to...to assume..." He pulled himself back to his side of the table quickly.

"Sam?" Castiel swallowed hard. He had heard the way the man's voice had changed, as though he were fading away, regressing to their previous stage. He chose his words and tone carefully. "Sam, I want you to assume that I will always want this to continue. I want you to take me entirely for granted. Assume that every time you suggest that we'll do this again next week, I feel like I've won some incredible prize. Assume I'm...Sam, assume I'm falling completely in love with you."

The intensity and brightness of Sam's eyes was a thing of beauty. His mouth opened, then closed again. Fear was radiating from the man, and panic was edging out every other emotion Sam was projecting.

Castiel's throat was closing around his own pounding heart which had leapt out of its place. If it were anyone else, he would plead with them to say something, anything. But he couldn't say that to Sam, and if it were anyone else, he wouldn't be in this situation to begin with. He couldn't imagine ever loving anyone other than Sam.

At last, Sam seemed to come to some sort of decision. He reached abruptly across the table to capture Castiel's lips with his own, and framed his face with both hands. "Come home with me tonight," he whispered. "Please. Dean's been at Lisa's, and..."

Castiel grinned into the next kiss. "Thank god," he sighed in relief. "I thought you were about to tell me you didn't want me."

Sam pulled back and stared at him from two inches away, blinking. "Not want you? Is there anyone in the world who wouldn't want you?"

He chuckled at this. "Ms. Chandler did call me edible recently."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Somebody's not getting her desk fixed on Monday."

This produced a peal of laughter that Castiel couldn't hold in, and which revealed the extent of the glee he felt at finding Sam jealous, even jokingly, of the drama teacher.

He snickered. "You think I'm kidding. Don't piss off the custodian. She wants something edible, she can bite me.”

Castiel’s mouth fell open. “Wow! You do have a jealous streak!”

Sam’s eyes lowered, and he laughed quietly. “I just think I’ve worked harder to be yours than anyone has ever had to, and I should get my chance. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Castiel responded with a look of mock sincerity. “That’s true. All she does is wink at me. You, though, you fill my head with gruesome murders and quantum physics.”

“And I think that should be worth far more than a wink.”

He leaned forward to claim another kiss. “She’s also not nearly so beautiful. And my whole arm doesn’t tingle when she touches my hand.”

Sam gave him a sour look. “When does she touch your hand?” he sulked.

“Are you going to turn out to be one of the possessive serial killers you make me read about?”

“Probably.”

“Dammit. I knew this was too good to be true.”

Finally, Sam began to smile again, and his eyes took on a more serious look now. “So? Still willing to come home with me? You kind of didn’t respond.”

Castiel tried to bite down his grin. “I’m never, never, ever going to say no to that offer from you. You...are offering, right?” The stammer was coming back. “I mean, if you’re just talking about more coffee, that’s-that’s fine, but I really...Whatever you want, but...God, Sam, if…”

The light of humor was back in those hazel eyes. “Sex, Cas.”

“Oh, thank god.”

 

***

 

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes…"

Castiel finally stopped reading. He shook his head, and let his gaze skitter over the pages. “Sam, this makes no sense to me. Is he calling them...I mean, I get the reference to drugs. And the context of the time, I'm familiar with that, but...The Angels of Mohammed, if I remember right, they're the ones that led to the idea of the angel and devil on everyone's shoulders, but they're not pushing our choices, they're just recording our choices so we can be judged later by God. So they're professors at universities...But-oh. Or does he just mean the drugs are causing them to see angels, or hear them? So what's an angelheaded hipster? How can someone be angelheaded? Is that referring to a halo?” Castiel flipped a page. “And what's the bit about purgatoried torsos, with dreams and drugs and cock-Is that...What is that? Sins not bad enough to go to hell for but too bad to allow you into Heaven? I'm confused.”

Sam was laughing silently, shaking the bed with his delight. His long limbs wrapped around his lover in happy contentment. His chest pressed against Castiel's back, and he let their heartbeats rest together and keep one another warm. The man felt amazing, and he looked incredible wearing only his glasses in bed, holding a book of poetry as if he didn't trust it. Sam had never been happier in his life.

Castiel opened his mouth again, but Sam cut him off before the next tirade could begin.

“This is why you read so slowly,” he murmured into the man's hair. “You analyze instead of feel the words.”

Castiel sighed. “I can't help it. Words are supposed to mean something.”

“They do. But not out of the context of their structure. You're not giving them a chance to be what they were made for. _Howl_ isn't meant to be dissected and sewn back together. It's already bleeding such delicious juices. You just have to let them flow.”

“You're gruesome, Sam. That's a ridiculous analogy.”

Sam smiled and waited.

“And obviously you're right. But that doesn't mean I can turn it off. It's how I'm wired. Poetry. Just the word filled me with dread in high school and college. A bunch of stoned men debating about life and love, and screwing one another all the while.”

“They aren't all gay.”

Castiel snorted. “Really? We didn't just purgatory our torsos a half hour ago?”

Sam burst into another round of laughter.

“I'm just saying, I prefer more straightforward reading material. I accept that this is great literature. I don't pretend to understand why.”

His lover sighed.

“It's the same as Van Gogh and Picasso. I understand they're important. Don't understand why. I find studying the men themselves fascinating. Their art is beyond me.”

“How can you study and teach history without teaching art?”

Castiel twisted in his grasp so they faced one another. “I teach art, Sam. I teach the inspiration of it, the context around it, and the impact of it. I even teach appreciation of it. But I don't pretend to understand what makes a certain type of brush stroke a masterpiece when another is just ordinary. Or why certain combinations of accented syllables were popular at some points in literary history. Look at Lord Byron. To me, his greatest contribution wasn't his poetry, but the fact that he was the father of Ada of Lovelace, who was an incredible genius! I know he's supposed to be one of the great Romantics, and a war hero and whatnot. But he isn't the one whose mathematics and engineering created computer programming. His daughter did that. How can some poetry about _Don Juan_ compare to that?”

Sam put his lips on Castiel's throat, and enjoyed the shiver he created. “ _Don Juan_ was written in eight line iambic pentameter, using ottava rima to its comedic potential.”

Castiel stared at him. “I have no idea what language you're speaking.”

The laugh that erupted was filled with utter delectation.

The teacher sighed. “Sam, most of our conversations consist of me being an idiot and you finding it funny. Have you noticed that?”

Sam pulled his lover in tighter and relished the warmth of his skin. “No, Cas,” he corrected. “It's not that at all. It's you being adorable and me finding it irresistible.”

“I've never worried about the level of intellect I command. Not till you started using full sentences on me.”

The larger man climbed up onto him, peppering the beautiful bare flesh with tickling kisses. “Yes, love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire with angels shared…”

“That's Byron. Isn't it?” Castiel sighed in defeat.

“If thou wert mine, had all been hush’d:—  
This cheek, now pale from early riot,  
With Passion’s hectic ne’er had flush’d,  
But bloom’d in calm domestic quiet.”

He punctuated every phrase with kisses down Castiel's chest and stomach.

“Sam,” Castiel sighed happily.

“You think Byron wasn't a genius? Maybe he was an oracle. He saw me falling for you, far in the future.”

“What-”

“By day or night, in weal or woe,  
That heart, no longer free,  
Must bear the love it cannot show,  
And silent ache for thee.”

The words were a whisper, hot breath on sweet skin, a prayer. There was a moment of quiet, then Sam found tears in blue eyes gazing down at him.

He gave his lover a shaky smile. “And silent ache for thee,” he murmured again.

“I'm so in love with you, Sam. Thank you with all my heart for trying for so long to speak with me. I know...I know it still exhausts you. I just need you to know I'm never going to forget to be grateful for the effort it takes.”

“And I'll never take your patience for granted.” Sam took a long, heady breath and spoke again. “Cas, I love you. I've known the words to all these verses for years. I never felt them till now.”

“I think the sex was good.”

Sam snorted at the abruptness. He lay his forehead on Castiel's chest to laugh. “Yeah?”

“I'm just…” Castiel began to flush pink. Sam could feel his heart racing. “I don't mean...It was the last major piece of our puzzle, though, wasn't it? We fit well together, don’t we? I...I'm not saying-Just, you know. I'm glad we seem to...We’re compatible, right? Unless-unless you disagree…”

“I obviously agree, Cas. I haven't stopped touching you all night.”

“Right, so...I'm glad. You-Really?”

“Cas. The sex was good. The sex was incredible. You need to hear me tell somebody else? You want me to call my brother and brag about how wonderful it was?”

“No!” Castiel shrieked. “No! Don't you ever tell Coach Winchester I slept with his little brother! What's wrong with you?”

Sam burst into shaking chuckles, letting his weight fall entirely onto his lover’s body. “You're scared of my brother?”

“I think so,” Castiel confirmed.

He rolled so that Castiel was atop him, glasses askew and blue eyes scowling at him. He was delicious. He let his hands run over Castiel’s toned arms appreciatively. “Thought you were trained for life in the military.”

“Coach Winchester is one of the only men I've ever met that I'm not confident I could handle if I needed to. Although, now that I've seen you without your clothes on, there might be another on that list.” A slow smile crept onto his lips. “I could stay right here all night staring at you, you know.”

“You're like the opposite of Byron. Good thing you're hot.”

Dark eyebrows flew up. “What? The opposite of Byron!”

“I told you that I finally understand the passion of poetry now that I know you. You followed that by saying the sex was good.”

Castiel blinked at him. “The sex was good.” The eyes narrowed. “The sex was very good?”

Sam draped an arm over his eyes. “You're hopeless! I'm in love with a man who's tone deaf to poetry.”

Castiel was laughing now. He pushed his way to Sam's lips, kissed him with such tenderness that it took Sam a moment to recover, and by then, Castiel had wriggled in to whisper in his ear. “When I ask you to marry me, will I need poetry?”

The man stopped breathing.

“Since I know all the pieces fit together. I've been infatuated with you for going on two years now, I've been in love with you for at least a month, and you just told me some nonsense about silently aching for me. Seems like the logical thing. I just want to know how to plan the rest of my life. You know how organized I am.”

For the first time in his life, Sam was speechless for all the right reasons.

 

***

 

Ben and his buddies were laughing over some private joke over by the cooler. Lisa and the other women were gathered by the pool. It was still too cold to get in, but a few had their bare feet dangling in it. Castiel was getting lessons at the grill from Dean, and Sam smirked at the look of devoted concentration on his lover’s face. Dean held a beer in one hand and was pointing into the grill with the other, instructing Castiel with authority. Then he slapped the teacher on the back and walked toward Sam, leaving Castiel in charge.

Sam chuckled at the look of anxiety on Castiel’s face as he frowned at the meat and vegetables on the grill.

Dean laughed too. “He’ll be fine. If he burns something, he burns something. It’s part of the learning process.”

The younger man shook his head at him in wonder.

His brother did not even have to look at him to know what he was thinking. He took a sip of beer and nodded. “Yeah, I know. Not something the old Dean would have said, huh?”

Sam shrugged, and diplomatically hid behind his own bottle.

“It’s part of my learning process too,” he admitted quietly. “Letting stuff go. Letting other people make mistakes without jumping in to save them all the time. Never realized how much I did that till I tried to stop.”

He nodded his agreement.

“How come you never said anything about it?” Then Dean shook his head. “Don’t. I know I wouldn’t have listened. But I’m trying.” He sighed. “So? What about you? Cas is around to stay, I guess, huh? It’s been, what? Three months?”

Sam held up his hand.

“Jesus. Five? I been back home five months?”

He received another nod.

Dean’s voice softened as he watched Lisa laugh across the yard. “Feels like just last week, I thought I’d lost her forever. Sometimes I still wake up in the night and…” He frowned and threw back his bottle. “Anyway, we were talking about you and Cas. He’s so excited about you looking into that archiving position. Can’t stop talking about it long enough to flip a damn steak.”

Sam laughed. A familiar warmth was filling him that came just with the mention of Castiel’s pride in his boyfriend. He licked his lips and gave a little wince.

“I know. Ain’t in the bag yet. But the video you sent them, they liked it, right? Cas said they were so impressed that they left you three messages that day you sent it.”

A sting of anxiety mixed with excitement in his stomach. But he nodded. Castiel had recorded Sam answering the interview questions that the directors of the Snite Art Museum and the archivist at the University of Notre Dame had sent him. After a weekend spent producing a complete digital portfolio to send the team, Sam was physically exhausted, but hopeful for the first time in years. Castiel had chattered endlessly about how the team had immediately emailed Sam and expressed how pleased they were with his presentation, and how sure they were that he would be a great fit for the job. Sam had finally had to tell his well-meaning lover to stop talking or he was going to throw up. Like the supportive boyfriend he was, Castiel had just smiled at him and given him his space, then pulled him into his arms that night and let the silence wrap its cool comfort around them. Sam could still feel the pride soaking through Castiel’s arms and into his own skin. It was the best he had felt about himself in his whole life. Now it was a matter of working out a contract for the unique position, and detailing accommodations necessary for Sam to complete his work independently and effectively without having to participate in anything but the briefest conversations. He had proven his ability to work independently, and his portfolio of research and archival work had made clear his professional talent. And he was heartened by the hiring team’s insistence that any difficulties with communication could be sorted through, assuming both parties were satisfied with the work being done.

Things had changed dramatically in the last few months. Dean had moved out. Castiel had moved in. It had been an enormous development for Sam to share space with someone other than his brother. Some days, he looked around the house and simply shook his head. It was clear what space was Castiel’s and what was his, and what they shared between them. Sam’s things were neat and comfortable, and everything was in its place. Castiel was in a constant state of mismanagement, as were his belongings. Somehow, Sam didn’t mind. He rolled his eyes a lot, but the fact was that Castiel’s disorganization made Sam feel like he was needed. He got Castiel out of the house on time with coffee in his hand and his tie fixed properly, then received him at the end of the day, in his classroom, in complete disrepair again. Sam still spoke very little while on duty, but now when he was finished cleaning the history classroom, he straightened up the history teacher as well, and Castiel just looked at him with utter adoration as he did so. Sam had convinced Castiel to part with the clothing he hoarded but never wore, and the books he would never read again.

Then came the cat and dog. Dean had been personally offended about that, considering he was allergic to cats and, though he would never admit it, somewhat wary of dogs. But they were each seven year old rescues, and they had been inseparable as fosters, so Sam and Castiel had brought them in, and they had immediately become perfect companions. Sam and his new family spent most evenings sitting in comfortable silence in the living room. He and the dog read their latest find or did research on the laptop, and Castiel and the cat spread papers all over the couch, end table and coffee table, and did grading and muttered to themselves. Castiel did much of the cooking, and Sam did his best to keep the house in order, in spite of the whirlwind of chaos he had fallen in love with, and the cat who liked to knock things off shelves just because it annoyed the dog. At night, the animals were locked out of the bedroom, where Sam listened to the clumsy poetry of gratitude and awe slip breathlessly from Castiel’s lips, and they tasted more passionate than anything Byron had ever written.

Now, he was staring across Dean and Lisa’s yard at the man he would make his husband one day, and he was enjoying a beer with his brother, and everything was right with the world.

He glanced away from Castiel at the grill as Ben sat next to him. “Hey, Uncle Sammy.”

Sam smiled at him fondly. He had always liked Ben. He had his mother’s grin, but his mischievous smirk was all Dean Winchester. It didn’t matter who had fathered the kid originally. There was never a doubt in anyone’s mind that this was Dean’s kid.

“Dean's gonna teach me to drive his car.”

He nearly spat his beer.

Dean hurried in with an amendment. “What was it I said?”

Ben smirked. “Okay. Dean said he'd teach me to fix his car, do tune ups and stuff. Then he said he'd teach me to drive it.”

That was far more believable. Sam nodded.

“And for me to do that, Mom says I gotta get an A on my research paper.”

Sam smirked back at the kid. He knew where this was heading.

“But I don't know a whole lot about, like, citing sources and stuff. I thought maybe I could do the writing part, and you…”

Dean was shaking his head, but he lifted the beer to his lips. Sam chuckled at the man's admirable restraint. He leaned down to whisper to Ben. “I will help you, and I will teach you. I won't do it for you.”

Ben sighed. “Yeah. You know. That's what I meant. Teach me.”

Dean scoffed. “Get out of here before I throw your lazy ass in the pool.”

The laughter carried over Ben’s shoulder as he jogged away.

“I love that kid.”

“He worships you, Dean,” Sam murmured. “Just like I always did.”

Dean snorted.

“I'm serious. Watch yourself, dude. Whatever you are, he's gonna be. So be what you want him to be.”

“You have any idea how freaking terrifying that is? I swear you only talk when you want to screw with my head.”

Sam shrugged. Then he lowered his eyes to his hands. He knew they were virtually alone. Everyone else was occupied in their own conversations. But their proximity made it difficult all the same. When he sighed, he looked up a moment later to find Dean's pen held out to him. He smiled. Dean always knew. He had been finding it easier to speak lately. But gatherings like this would probably always be tiring for him. It was nice to have his old coping mechanisms available to him when he needed them.

Dean drank his beer with his left hand and stared at Ben, who was laughing with his mother at the pool. Sam doubted the man even felt the scribbling on his right forearm anymore. It was just four words, but they meant everything to Sam. So when Dean finally looked down, and the soft smile came over his handsome face, Sam realized he was completely content with his life.

“Me too, Sammy,” Dean murmured. “I am too.”

 

***

 

It had been years since Dean had new ink on his arm. He was glad he had thought to get Sam's four words tattooed. Something about having Sam's handwriting on his arm just seemed right. He glanced down at those words whenever he needed the reminder that he wasn't perfect but he was getting better. It was the reminder that someone he loved and respected knew he was trying. And whenever he saw Sam struggling or frustrated, he pointed out what Castiel lovingly called “the calligraphic hieroglyphics” on his arm, and the tattoo reminder never failed to produce a smile of gratitude from his kid brother. Dean tapped it with his finger when Ben needed the encouragement, and it always earned him a grin that conjured his wife's charisma in his mind.

They were the words he repeated to himself like a mantra whenever things got hard. When he decided to quit drinking, he had been on the phone with his anger management sponsor, Benny, nearly every night, but it was Sam's scribble that kept him from reaching for a bottle. When Ben had gone through that stage of rebellion that had made Dean's teeth grind, and Lisa threatened to look into a military school, it was Sam's scribble that made him take Ben on a weeklong camping trip, just the two of them, to get things worked out. When Castiel had come to him with swollen red eyes and desperate, stuttering pleading, convinced he had ruined his relationship with Sam over something none of them would remember years later, it was Sam's scribble that gave him the patience to get Castiel back on track. And when John had been killed by a knife in a brawl with another drunk trucker, Dean had stared at Sam's scribble like it was a testament to what Dean's own end could have been, how far he had come from that same downward spiral.

He pointed at his arm when Sam winked at him as he insisted on whispering his own vows at the private, quiet wedding. He had pointed it out to Ben on his graduation day. He had fallen in love with Lisa all over again when she had tapped her nail on the tattoo on their sixth annual anniversary picnic. When the papers were complete and the adoption was final, and the sweet twenty-two month old Rose truly belonged to Sam and Castiel, Dean had held her, snuggled her, and let her trace her little fingers over her Papa’s scribble on her uncle’s arm, while her Daddy's blue eyes filled with tears.

It had been years since Sam had written anything on his arm. But those four words would never fade, and they meant everything to Dean.

“I'm proud of us.”

Dean was still proud of them too.


	2. Artwork by brilliant AshahTaylor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally adding the artwork that goes with the Big Bang Fic.
> 
> My fic, AshahTaylor's lovely art.

SamCasHush 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my lovely artist and beta, and to the BB organizers!
> 
> I used prompts from two tumblr users, including Rosworms' and one who challenged me to fit HOWL into a fic. Hope I did their ideas justice. 
> 
> Please comment and-if you enjoyed it-please recommend!! Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> ~Posing


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